The Nightmarys (21 page)

returned with a smal white notecard, which he

handed to Abigail. “This is al I have. I’m only

doing this so you’l leave me alone and never

come back here, at least until the semester is

over.” He glared at her. “Deal?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot,” she added quickly.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot,” she added quickly.

The two kids casual y walked out the

library’s front door. By the time they reached

the bot om step, they were at a near sprint.

They ran, sticking to the campus paths until

they found the quad. Hunched over, Timothy

stopped, trying to catch his breath. Abigail

gasped, hugged the micro che pages to her

chest, then glanced over her shoulder up the

hil . “Why were we running like that?” she

asked.

“I don’t know,” said Timothy. “I was

fol owing you. I guess I thought we should get

out of there before he took the notecard back.

What’d he write on it anyway?”

Abigail had clenched the card in her st. She

opened her hand, turned the card over, and

said, “Jack.”

Timothy paused. “Jack? As in jack squat? As

in nothing?”

“Jack … as in that’s the old man’s name.

Hesselius’s son,” said Abigail, showing Timothy

the card. “He wrote his address too.”

the card. “He wrote his address too.”

“Ash Tree Lane?” Timothy read. “That’s just a

few blocks from my house.”

“Cool,” said Abigail, “so you can lead the

way.”

“Wait,” said Timothy, handing the card back

to her. “You actual y want to go to the house?”

“What else did you have in mind for the

afternoon? A game of Parcheesi with my

grandmother?” said Abigail. “This guy has

answers. He’s got to know what’s going on.

Maybe he can tel us some more about his

father. We can ask him about the basebal cards

and the safe. Maybe he’l tel us what’s in it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Timothy nodded. “Or maybe he

can kil us.”

Abigail smacked his arm. “He’s old. What can

he do?”

“You don’t know how old he is,” said

Timothy.

“What are you worried about?” said Abigail.

“Gavin said he ‘hobbled.’ I don’t think someone

“Gavin said he ‘hobbled.’ I don’t think someone

who hobbles has enough strength to hurt us.”

Timothy lowered his voice, like a television

announcer, and answered, “She said as he

whacked her with his sword cane.”

“People don’t inherit the sins of their

parents,” said Abigail. “That’s what Gavin said.”

“Yeah, but—”

“If we don’t check out this address, we’ve hit

a dead end. You can either come with me, or

you can stand here admiring the view.” She

gestured toward the river. The lighthouse had

fal en under the bridge’s shadow, as the sun

had now moved halfway across the sky. The

wind o the water was chil y. Timothy’s

stomach growled. The campus was quiet, and

they had nowhere else to go.

He gured they could stop by the old man’s

house, ring his doorbel , at least check the

place out. Maybe this Jack guy wasn’t home.

Even if he was home, he might not know jack.

They wouldn’t know until they tried.

“Hold on,” said Timothy, racing up the Dragon

Stairs after Abigail. “I can’t keep up with you.”

“You? Mr. Swim Team can’t keep up with a

girl?” Abigail cal ed over her shoulder, teasing

him. The rol ed-up micro che copies wagged

from the back pocket of her jeans. Timothy

laughed, which slowed him down even more,

but then he glanced at the green paint on the

wal , thought of the dragon’s eyes, and stepped

up his pace.

“The house isn’t going anywhere,” said

Timothy.

“It’s not the house I’m worried about,” she

said over her shoulder. “Do you believe in

ghosts?”

“I’ve never real y thought about it.”

“Gramma thinks this is al about her, and

she’s going to try and stop it. Hesselius

promised to return someday. Get his revenge

on the lit le girl who told. After everything we

learned at the library, I’m beginning to think

maybe she’s on to something.”

maybe she’s on to something.”

“You think Hesselius’s ghost has that jawbone

thing?”

“Maybe. If that’s even possible. I don’t know

what to think. Al I know is I’ve got to keep

Gramma safe.”

35.

The house sat on Ash Tree Lane’s last plot of

land before the road became woods. A dead-

end street. Of course.

“I’ve been here before,” said Timothy,

standing with Abigail on the opposite sidewalk.

The cement beneath his feet was cracked.

“Stuart and me used to come up here

sometimes,” he continued. “We’d play catch in

the street, because we didn’t have to worry

about tra c. We always thought this house was

empty.”

“Maybe it was then,” said Abigail, “but it’s

not now.”

The house across the street was three stories

tal —maybe a hundred fty years old. Its white

paint was chipped and, in some places, peeling

in long, thin strips. Four massive wood columns

stretched from the stone foundation to the

sharp-peaked, triangular roof. Above the deep

sharp-peaked, triangular roof. Above the deep

porch, a smal octagonal window stared out

over the rest of the neighborhood. The

remaining windows, four across each

subsequent oor, were darkened. Dangling

from the high porch roof, a long black chain

swung in the breeze like a hypnotist’s watch.

From the end of the chain, a box lamp glowed

dimly, defying the afternoon light.

“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Looks like someone’s

home.”

A jumble of early-spring weeds l ed the

deep yard behind the white fence, which

separated the house from the street. A weeping

wil ow brushed budding limbs against the right

side of the porch. Around the left corner, an

ancient black Mercedes was parked in front of

a detached, barnlike garage.

Abigail stepped o the curb and started

toward the house.

“Wait,” said Timothy. “What’s our plan?”

Abigail shrugged and kept walking. He stayed

where he was. “But what if he’s a psycho?

where he was. “But what if he’s a psycho?

What if he tries to kil us?”

“We’re just going to ask him some questions.

It’l be quick,” said Abigail. “Besides, at this

point, I’m almost positive that whatever is

trying to hurt us isn’t human. Hesselius is dead,

remember?”

“And that’s a good thing?” he asked. A

vengeful ghost? It seemed so sil y. But then, life

had become quite sil y lately, hadn’t it? “How

are we supposed to stop a … ghost?”

“Maybe its son wil know,” she answered,

brushing her short black hair o her forehead.

Timothy tripped after her. Abigail swung open

the garden gate. They climbed the front steps.

Abigail stuck out her nger and pressed the

doorbel .

Deep inside the house, a buzzer rat led. It

was a shocking sound, like a joke-shop

handshake trick. After several seconds, they

heard someone approach the front door. The

doorknob turned, and the door opened.

Standing just inside, a stooped man with

Standing just inside, a stooped man with

gnarled knuckles grasped the handles of a silver

walker. He seemed barely able to lift his head

but managed to look at them with curious eyes.

His distorted pupils seemed to spil into the

ice-blue rings of his irises. The sight of the

man’s grandfatherly out t—gray slacks, a

stained white T-shirt, and fuzzy gray slippers—

was a relief. Behind him, the house was l ed

with daylight. Inside the foyer, a large staircase

wound upward to several landings.

“Can I help you?” said the old man, his voice

shaking. He managed to smile, looking happy

at the prospect of visitors, even if he did not

recognize them.

Timothy nudged Abigail. She stepped

forward. “Are you … Jack?”

“Jack?” said the man, amused. “Wel , yes, I

suppose some people cal me that.”

“We’re looking for the son of Christian

Hesselius,” said Timothy.

The man raised his head, which trembled on

his weak neck, and looked at them more

his weak neck, and looked at them more

closely. “Wel , then … you’ve found him.”

“We got your name and address from Gavin

Engstrom at the col ege library,” said Abigail.

“Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”

The man seemed confused. “Is this about my

father’s of ice? Because my lawyer told me …”

“No, it’s not … entirely,” said Abigail. She

cleared her throat. “We just wanted to talk to

you about … the past.”

“The past?” said the old man. His eyes darted

between Timothy and Abigail. “Most kids your

age aren’t interested in talking about stu like

that.”

“We’re sorry to bother you,” Timothy said,

“but it’s important.”

“Ah, wel , if it’s important,” the man

answered, teasing. He was silent for several

seconds. Final y, he moved his walker out of

the way and motioned for them to come inside.

“Can I get you something to drink? Eat?” He

led them through a doorway into the kitchen.

“Sorry this place is such a mess. The visiting

“Sorry this place is such a mess. The visiting

nurse doesn’t work weekends, and even though

it’s not in her job description, she usual y helps

me clean up after myself. I’ve never been very

good at that. Not even when I could lift more

than a couple of books at a time.” Across the

room, his walker bumped into the oven. He

glanced at the kids, who stood in the doorway.

“So what’l it be?”

Timothy was hungry, but he knew that wasn’t

what they’d come for. Besides, this place didn’t

smel very good.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” said Abigail.

“Please. At least sit down. I get nervous when

people stand in doorways.”

The kids came inside and stood next to the

table. Jack waited several uncomfortable

seconds, until they’d both pul ed out chairs and

sat down. “So … the past,” he said. “What

about it?”

Timothy glanced at Abigail. He couldn’t think

of anything intel igent to say. He hadn’t thought

this far ahead. Had she?

this far ahead. Had she?

“Your father,” said Abigail. “How wel did

you know him?”

Jack leaned against the oven, facing them

directly. “As wel as any son knows his parent, I

suppose.” When Abigail didn’t immediately

answer, he continued, “I think I understand

what this is about.”

“You do?” Timothy asked.

“You’ve heard the old stories,” Jack suggested

simply. “You want to know if they’re true.”

“The old stories?” said Abigail.

“This city has tried to erase his legacy, both

good and bad,” said Jack. “Over the years,

people have often sought answers from me. In

al honesty, when it comes to my father, I have

no answers. I only have my opinion, and that

is: my father was a good man … despite the

evidence.” He smiled. “That’s my story and I’m

sticking to it.” The way Jack spoke reminded

Timothy of someone reading a script, as if the

old man didn’t believe his own words.

“How long have you lived in this house?”

“How long have you lived in this house?”

Timothy asked. “I thought this place was

empty.”

“Oh, several months now. I’d been away from

New Starkham for quite a while. Something

brought me back, I guess. Nostalgia? I don’t

know. When you’re my age, you don’t have too

many friends left in the world. You return to

your roots. Either that or move to Florida. And

I hate Florida.” Jack choked out a laugh.

“There’s one thing I can thank my daddy for:

imprinting New Starkham in my brain. I’ve

never forgot en this place or its people. I

suppose you might say it’s al part of me now.”

He pointed at them, his hand shaking. “You just

wait. In sixty years, we’l see where you end

up. Tel me if I’m right.”

“But you’l be …,” Timothy began, before

stopping and turning bright red. Abigail glared

at him.

“What?” said Jack. He laughed again. “Dead?